


Golden Hair

by krikkiter68



Category: The Goodies (TV)
Genre: 'Grease' references, Bisexuality, Crossdressing, Crushes, Disco music, M/M, Slash, Syd Barrett reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-09-30 23:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: Graeme has a major crush on Tim, who doesn't seem to notice.  Or does he?Based on events in 'Saturday Night Grease', set in 1979.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No profit has been made or is intended from this fiction.

Graeme found himself standing on the banks of a perfect, mythical azure sea. There, in front of him, inside a gigantic clam shell, an enigmatic smile on his face and his long blond hair blowing gently in the breeze, stood Tim. In place of his usual smart suit and Union Jack waistcoat was…well, practically nothing, save for a pair of navy-blue underpants with a large carrot emblazoned on the front. It was all very bizarre, and not a little distracting. So much so, he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t ingested some of Bill’s sherbet by accident…

Tim stretched out his hand towards him.

“Gray…” he intoned, in his cultured and slightly fey tones, “Gray…”

Graeme felt someone shaking him, and he woke, his face pressed against his work-desk.

“Gray!” Tim was saying, excitedly, “Gray, wake up! How’s Greased Cycling coming along?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Tim, I must have dozed off there,” Graeme said. “Not too bad. I still have to sort out her aerodynamics, and then we’ll be ready for take-off.”

Tim beamed, and clapped his hands together.

“Oh, goody! And you’ll teach me to disco-dance?”

“Of course, Tim. Anything you want.”

Tim danced up to his Olivia Newton-John poster that had very recently replaced his poster of the Queen, and pressed his face against it.

“Oh, Livvy,” he murmured. “My darling. My own. My Antipodean princess. My little wallaby! I’ll dance for you, and you’ll fall in love with me…”

He twirled around in an imaginary waltz, not stopping until he was out of the door. Graeme scowled at the pretty, smiling blonde on the poster.

It’s not fair, he thought. Why can’t he look at me like that?


	2. Chapter 2

Graeme laid a hand on his giant computer’s console, listening to its cogs whirring and chattering, until with a “ping”, it emitted a miniature slip of paper. He tore it off and looked at it.

“I’M LONELY”, it read.

He patted it sadly.

“I know, old girl,” he murmured. “Me, too.”

It was late. Tim was out disco dancing, no doubt. Dancing with girls. Graeme shook his head. It was a dangerous business, and he was worried. Oh, why did he have to go and teach Tim to dance?

He stood up and went looking for Bill. He just had to talk to someone about it. Eventually, he found the Meditation Room, and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Bill called out.

Graeme walked in, to find Bill sitting cross-legged on a pile of brightly-pattered scatter cushions, and, much to his consternation, smoking a hookah pipe. A record was playing.

“Good, innit?” Bill said. “'Golden Hair' by Syd Barrett, bless him. The Floyd just aren’t the same without him.”

“Ah, well,” Graeme said. “I don’t know a thing about rock music. Debussy’s more my sort of thing. What on earth are you smoking, by the way? You’re not back on the sherbet, are you?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I’ve given it up. And the sweet cigarettes. Nah, this is new, this is. Here, you try it.”

Graeme nervously took the pipe from Bill's hand, put it to his lips and inhaled. Immediately he broke away, coughing.

“Cherry spearmint? Ugh!” he cried. “That’s revolting!”

“Well, don’t have any, then,” Bill said, taking the pipe back from Graeme and inhaling.

“Bill,” Graeme started.

“Yes, Graybags?”

Graeme cleared his throat, nervously. His heart was pounding.

“Do you think that Tim…likes me?”

“’Course he does, Gray! I like you, too.” 

“Well, thanks. Likewise. Um, when I say ‘likes me’, I mean, does he really, really, ‘like’ me?”

“Oh. Oh! I see. Weeellll…I think he really, really... likes ladies. Sorry, Gray,” he said, seeing Graeme’s crestfallen expression.

“I see. Like Olivia Newton-John, I suppose.”

“Dunno what he sees in her, that squeaky-clean plastic blonde Aussie trollop,” Bill said, crossly. “You’ve got smashing legs, by the way. You looked great in that tutu, when you were teaching him to dance.”

“Oh, um, thanks,” Graeme said. Bill can be a bit of a Neanderthal, Graeme thought, but he can be really kind, when he's not in a temper that is.

“Anyway,” Bill said. “There’s only one girl in the world for me. Dame Edna Everage. Ooh, she’s a right little cracker!”

“Bill,” Graeme said, “there’s something you should probably know about Edna…”

He paused. Bill was inhaling from the pipe again, looking almost impossibly happy.

“Yes, Gray?” Bill said eventually, beaming.

“Uh…she’s got great glasses. Thanks, Bill. I really should be going, Twinkle’s getting hungry.”

“Ta-ra,” Bill said, waving regally as Graeme left the room. “Don’t let him eat anyone he’s not supposed to…”


	3. Chapter 3

This isn’t good, Graeme thought. Not good at all.

Teaching Tim to dance had to be his worst decision to date. He’d been arrested for trying to dance with a woman at a disco. Tim’s too scared to watch ‘Saturday Night Fever’ because it’s an ‘X’ film, thought Graeme. How on Earth is he going to cope with prison? I’ve got to help my love…errr, help him…

And Bill hadn’t helped. He’d been too busy running Disco Billius, and the office was overrun with glitterballs and fake Bianca Jaggers. The late nights, the drinking and smoking, the constant phone calls, the day-and-night crashing of heavy trays, the gold-bar necklaces Bill insisted on wearing – frankly, Graeme was worried about his health. Worst of all, Bill’s ultra-controversial mixed-dancing competition was taking place that evening, and Graeme had a nasty feeling Bill was going to run off with Tim’s bail money. There was only one course of action open to him now.

He stepped into the costume room. It had been a while since he’d been in there, living as he did in the same old tweed suits. Well, people were certainly going to see a different side of him tonight.

Graeme pushed through the endless racks of clothing, smiling as he recognised the Beefeater and Robin Hood costumes from happier times, until, near the end of one of the furthest racks, he found something unfamiliar. Squinting forwards, he recognised a shiny leather jacket, and, also on the hanger, a very skinny pair of ladies’ leather trousers and a voluminous curly blonde wig. Underneath the hanger stood a pair of high-heeled mules. He nodded, and took the items into the bathroom.

He took a shower, shaving his chest, legs and armpits closely before rinsing himself off. He patted himself dry with his towel, before liberally dousing himself with Charlie body spray, pulled on a pair of satin panties, and then glared at the leather trousers hanging on the back of the door. They looked ready to fight him. Graeme was up for the challenge.

Some forty-five minutes and a variety of eye-popping contortions later, Graeme finally managed to pull up the trousers and zip them shut. Gasping for breath, he leaned against the sink. When he’d finally recovered, he reached into the cabinet for the stash of make-up.

Wig, lipstick, powder and paint. Graeme didn’t recognise the vision in the mirror before him, and allowed himself a wan smile as he zipped up the leather jacket and stepped cautiously into the heels.

He didn’t mind admitting to himself that he looked really rather beautiful.


	4. Chapter 4

All three of them were in mid-air, and not even Graeme had a clue what to do next. His mind was a whirl, the wind whipping through his hair, as he saw, very clearly:

Tim, trussed up in a straight-jacket, dragging a ball and chain behind him, (and gosh, that suggestion of bondage was distracting, even now) gazing deep into his eyes, and murmuring:

“Oh, Livvy…Livvy, be mine…”

Oh Tim, Graeme thought, twisting through the air, you can call me Livvy until the end of time.

Then everything became confused, the police disco-dancing after them. Crashing into the start of West Side Story, with a welcome blast of Bernstein. Distracted in their flight by a stretch of sand at a building site, because no one who has ever lived can resist the temptation to dance on sand. Graeme resolved to write a thesis on the subject, if he ever got out of this.

Whirling umbrellas, theirs white, the policemen’s black, splashing in and out of puddles in a beautifully-choreographed tribute to “Singin’ in the Rain”, before finding themselves, to their astonishment, right in the middle of Oz.

“I don’t think we’re in Cricklewood anymore, Tim,” Graeme remembered Bill murmuring.

“Well, obviously,” Tim had retorted.

Still the police followed, a cheeky conga through a car wash leading to a sashaying Hawaiian dance. They’d staggered to Fred and Ginger’s café and collapsed at one of the tables.

“We’ve made it,” Graeme gasped.

"Thank God,” Tim added.

Just then, the police burst out of the café and advanced on them, performing an aggressive can-can…

Graeme closed his eyes, not wanting to witness his final descent to the ground, then felt a jolt as he landed on something, none too gently. It felt very familiar. Amazingly, he felt himself rising again, and he opened an eye to see…

Tim, in front of him, holding the handlebars, looking as confused as he was. He glanced behind him, to see Bill grinning from ear to ear.

“Told ya it was ready! Clever little thing only came and saved us, didn’t it! Why, this trandem is automatic…” Bill said.

“It’s systematic…” Graeme murmured.

“It’s hy-dromatic…” Tim said, in an awed squeak.

“Why – it’s GREASED CYCLIN’!” they chorused.

The trandem sailed on and on into a beautiful red-and-gold sunset, as Tim and Graeme embraced and kissed each other.

“My own,” Tim murmured. “I love you, Graybags.”

“Oh Tim,” Graeme murmured. “Do you really mean it? Even without the wig?”

“Even without the wig. But by all means leave it on, if you like, my love.”

“Anything for you, darling,” Graeme said. “My beloved Golden Hair.”

Bill grinned behind them. Things had worked out for Tim and Graeme, his date with Dame Edna was coming up next week, and, best of all, just for once he didn’t have to pedal.

THE END


End file.
